Jane was exhilarated. By a stroll in a garden.
That should remind her just why she was so determined to educate herself on all sorts of things.
But it felt dangerously, wonderfully delicious to converse with him when it would be clear no one else knew what they were talking about.
It was a perfectly innocuous exchange, if you didn’t know the deeper meaning.
But she did. As did he.
And now her whole body felt alive, and she wanted to yank her slippers off and run on the grass in her bare feet yelling her joy.
Of course she could not do that. For one thing, the grass was slightly damp, so she’d likely slip and upend herself. An injury was not joyful.
For another, she wasn’t quite so free-spirited to actually follow through on her desires.
Perhaps, after a few weeks of lessons with him, she would be.
She giggled at the thought of what her Thomas Sharpe Graduation Ceremony might look like—her, barefoot and shrieking, romping in some aristocrat’s garden heedless of what anyone might say about her. Perhaps wearing a placard proclaiming her newly learned skills: knows what happens between a gentleman and a lady when there are no chaperones about; has gained entrance to the more scandalous clubs and evil dens of London; drinks whisky without sputtering.
Skills no young lady would ever admit to having.
Unless they wished to be known for those skills.
Which would mean the lady in question was utterly and totally ruined. Yet a gentleman such as Mr. Thomas Sharpe was lauded for the very same behavior.
Entirely unfair.
“Lady Jane,” Miss Grosvenor said, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief, “I hope you get everything you wish for.” And she accompanied her words with a smile that seemed to indicate that she might have some sort of idea just what Jane had wished for.
Perhaps there was more to Miss Grosvenor than met the eye at first glance. Which was true of her and Mr. Sharpe, for that matter.
He was more than a gorgeous face, and she was more than a dutiful, beautiful debutante.
“Lady Jane,” Lord Joseph said as he rejoined them at the fountain, “do you have plans to return to Miss Ivy’s? There were some games I have not yet shown you. We were interrupted last evening,” he continued, shooting a pointed glance toward Mr. Sharpe.
As though he was the person controlling Jane’s actions last evening, and not Jane herself.
Hmph.
“I do plan on it,” she replied. “I am not certain when that will be.” She raised her chin. “And when I do go, I plan on learning my own games.”
Mr. Sharpe smothered a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
“I would like to join you some evening, Lady Jane,” Miss Grosvenor said brightly.
“That would be lovely,” Jane replied.
“We will make a night of it,” Lord Joseph proclaimed in a too-hearty voice.
She did not like Lord Joseph. But that she could admit that to herself—that she did not like someone, even though she was the Most Amiable Jane with the Milksop Opinions—felt monumental.
And she did like Mr. Sharpe. Even though he nettled her at any opportunity.
But that kind of sparring riposte made her feel as though he was treating her as his equal, not a lesser type of person because she was female, or innocent, or too pretty to be taken seriously.
He hadn’t spoken for some time—he wasn’t trying to insert himself into the conversation. Wasn’t insisting he be the one to take the ladies to Miss Ivy’s. He accorded her the deference she deserved as an adult person in her own right. Not an ornament, or a mirror onto which to project one’s own ideas.
It was gratifying. And far too rare—only her siblings treated her like that, and she did not feel the same frisson of delicious danger that he engendered in her.
She wanted to dance with him again. She wanted to begin her explorations with him. She wanted to—or she could end that thought right there.
She wanted.
And she was going to take what she wanted. Not wait to be given it, like a child with a treat. But take it, like a person whose wishes and desires were valid. Whose inner thoughts and feelings were just as important as what appeared to everyone on the outside.
“Mr. Sharpe,” she said, giving him a direct look, “would you care to finish our dance?”
His gaze met hers, and what she saw there made her sharply inhale. A challenge, a look that declared, “I might be instructing you, but we are equals.” A look of dark intent that declared he would honor his promise to her.
“I would love to, my lady.”
She was remarkable. He’d already known that, but he’d thought her remarkable for other things: her beauty, her quiet elegance, her loyalty to her brother.
Now he could find her remarkable for her courage and commitment to fighting for herself and for other ladies like her, innocent women who might not know what trouble they were getting themselves into.
He wouldn’t teach her every kind of trouble—he couldn’t allow himself to do that—but by the end of their time together, she would know more than she did before. Which would mean she could navigate her world, the world she wanted to live in, with greater ease. He owed her that kind of instruction.
And if he got to spend time with a remarkably beautiful woman of both elegance and courage?
So much the better.
Though it would make the inevitability of his marriage that much more difficult. The contrast between spending time with a person because one wanted to, and spending time with a person because one wanted something from them—it was incalculable.
No wonder she was so determined not to have to make that choice. It was just his bad luck that she was going to ensure he would, if she was successful in her campaign to find him a wealthy woman who would take him.
He held his arm out for her, and she took it, giving him a sly look through her lashes. “Oh,” she exclaimed, turning back around, “Miss Grosvenor, are you coming in?”
“Yes, my lady,” Miss Grosvenor replied eagerly.
Thomas and Lady Jane waited as Miss Grosvenor scurried toward them, Lord Joseph following disgruntledly behind.
“Miss Grosvenor, what sights have you seen so far?” he heard Lady Jane ask.
He smiled to himself at Miss Grosvenor’s excited response.
And then they were in the ballroom, dancing again, and it was as though their bodies knew each other well, moving in perfect time to the music.
“I do love dancing,” she said, as though admitting a shameful secret.
“It is one of the few pleasures of an event like this,” Thomas admitted. He continued at her quizzical expression. “It is the only time when it is acceptable to just be silent and absorb what is happening. You don’t have to perform beyond your movements, and if the music is good—as it is tonight—it is exhilarating to go through the steps. I don’t have to be witty, or charming, or any of the things people normally expect of me. I just have to . . . dance.”
“It is exhausting,” she agreed in a thoughtful tone. “Which means we shouldn’t speak until the dance is over.” As she spoke, she shifted just a fraction so she was closer in his arms. His fingers tightened at her waist, and he heard her sigh in pleasure, which sent a spark of response shooting through his body.
They were just dancing. Merely dancing, and yet it felt as though they were so in tune with one another that it was an intimate moment, as private as if they were in his bed tangled up in his sheets. Her, warm and naked and responsive, him equally naked giving her as much pleasure as she had asked for. And more.
The image of it was so palpable he nearly stumbled, making her widen her eyes and give him a questioning look. He shook his head as though it were nothing.
It wasn’t nothing.
It was want, and desire, and a yearning in his soul he hadn’t felt since before that moment when his whole world shattered.
He hadn’t thought he’d ever have that feeling again, much less at a Society party wearing all of his clothes.
But here he was. Dancing with the most beautiful and most forbidden woman of his acquaintance. Making him keenly aware of how much loyalty he owed to his best friend, and how he dared not jeopardize that as he weighed just how much to show her.
Because he wanted to show her everything. All of him, and all of them, and goddamn his future and his future wife and loveless marriage if he could have a few moments like this one.
The music stopped, far too soon, and Thomas felt as though he’d been running for miles, giving chase to something just out of reach.
Her cheeks were flushed from the dancing, a few strands of silver-blond hair had fallen out of her carefully tidy coiffure, making her look more like the naked woman he’d just imagined in his bed.
“Mr. Sharpe?” she asked after a moment of silent staring.
“Yes, my lady,” he replied, shaking his head to clear it. “We should be off on the second part of our evening.” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we go? I believe an evil den of pleasure awaits.”
Her eyes lit up, and her lips curled into the most genuinely happy smile he’d ever seen. “An evil den of pleasure!” she repeated, clapping her hands together. “Oh, I cannot wait!”
Her words were said so excitedly he couldn’t help but smile in response. He hoped that no matter what she learned, either in the next few weeks or the rest of her life, that she would never lose her honest glee and clear enthusiasm for whatever might greet her next.
Jane settled into the carriage, waiting impatiently as Mr. Sharpe swung himself in beside her.
It was just them. Alone in the dark, the closed carriage creating a kind of cocoon from the outside world, even though they could see the party guests dancing by the windows.
And then the carriage began to move, its gentle rocking motion making her lean into him. She straightened in automatic response, but then realized she need not. Not with him, not now.
In her previous life as the Most Demure and Innocent Debutante in London, she would never have been alone in a carriage with a gentleman, much less have her shoulders bump into his arm. She giggled at the thought.
“What is on your mind, my lady?” he asked, taking her hand in his. She looked down at their hands, both gloved, his fingers curled around hers.
The holding of hands was even more scandalous than the shoulder/arm bumping combination.
“I was just thinking,” she began, still looking down, “how ridiculous it is to be so constrained.” She gestured with her free hand. “I mean, here we are. We have done nothing shocking, and yet the very circumstance of us being here alone together instantly means we have done something shocking.”
He chuckled in reply, then released her hand suddenly.
“Oh, I didn’t mean—” she began, but then he stripped off both of his gloves, and the next thing she knew, his fingers were undoing the buttons of her glove with practiced ease.
And then her glove was removed, and he’d taken her hand again, only now their skin was touching.
His hand was warm, and larger than hers. His grip was firm, but she knew if she wanted to wrest her hand away she could. He wouldn’t stop her.
She did not want to.
She wanted to keep holding his hand forever, feel that connection through her whole body. And it was only their hands that were touching; what if—no, not if, but when—other parts of them touched?
Oh. The thought sent skitters of acute awareness over her skin, making her feel as though she was overdressed, too constricted in her evening gown and slippers.
“My lady?” he said in a low, questioning tone.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she placed her free hand on his arm, twisting herself in her seat to manage it. Their faces were suddenly close to one another, and she gave a sharp inhale. So close.
“Did you want something?” he said, again in that low tone. A tone that made that awareness increase, if such a thing were possible.
She shook her head, biting her lip. And then she lifted her chin and met his gaze. It was dark in the carriage, but the streetlamps gave enough light that she could make out his features. The light wasn’t consistent, however, so there were moments where she could barely see, but she could hear: the horses’ harnesses jingling, the wheels clattering over the cobblestone roads.
Her own breath. Her heart, which seemed as though it were beating much faster than before.
An inarticulate noise from him, low and deep in his throat.
Her gaze didn’t waver. Even as she let go of his hand to swiftly remove her other glove, casting it God knows where, before putting her hand back in his and returning her other hand to his arm. Now feeling the cloth of his evening jacket as she slid her fingers up to his shoulder. Swallowing hard before moving her hand across to his neck, right where his cravat ended, wrapping her fingers up into his hair, tugging gently on the strands.
“My lady,” he said in a strangled tone. He tilted his head back against the carriage cushion and closed his eyes. Her fingers tugged those strands of hair again, and he grunted in response.
Meanwhile, his fingers tightened their grip on hers, and she felt a tiny feeling of triumph course through her.
She was doing this to him. She, Lady Jane the Meek, was making Mr. Thomas Sharpe utter an inarticulate noise as he surrendered to whatever she was doing to him.
She raked her fingernails on his scalp, and he made a pleasurable sound, encouraging her to do it again.
His hair was soft under her fingers, and she held her breath as she finally—finally!—swept that enticing curl up off his forehead.
“I had no idea my head was so sensitive,” he murmured, after her fingers had come to rest again at the back of his neck. He sat up straight again, his eyes meeting hers. “Or perhaps it’s just you,” he continued in that same low, intimate tone. “I like when you touch me.”
Her eyes widened. Six words, just six small words, and yet to hear him confess something so personal, something so specific to them in this moment, made her feel as though he’d just told her his darkest secret.
“I don’t know yet if I like it when you touch me,” she replied. Her voice didn’t sound like hers—it was huskier, as though she was having difficulty catching her breath and the words were getting caught in her throat.
Which was true, she realized.
She inhaled deeply as she strengthened her resolve. “I don’t know if I like it when you touch me,” she repeated, then added, “so you’ll have to do it more for me to reach a conclusion.”
And then she froze, worried he would think her too forward, too fast, too strong.
“Oh, my lady,” he replied in a warm, sensual tone that relieved all her concerns, “I already know I will like that.”
He placed his hand at her waist as he spoke, holding her in his firm grasp. Lowering his mouth to hers, the warm firmness of his lips pressed against hers.
She gasped, and he chuckled against her mouth, his fingers tightening at her waist.
He was kissing her.
The last thing Thomas wanted was to kiss her now.
Though that wasn’t true, was it? It was the only thing he wanted to do. It was the last thing he should be doing, but clearly he was skirting propriety and the bonds of friendship and whatever veneer of politeness he drew over himself in more public situations.
This moment was just for them. For just this moment, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to have to do, or about Percy, or the fact that this woman was deserving of so much more than him.
For just this moment, it was just them.
And he was kissing her, her warm mouth pressed against his. Opening slightly, just enough for him to tease her lips with his tongue, licking her mouth until she allowed him entry.
And then he was exploring with lips and teeth and tongue, his cock hardening in his trousers as she responded to his touch.
Her tongue met his, and she made a surprised noise, nearly making him laugh. But he was too engrossed in what they were doing to stop. He didn’t want to stop, not now, not ever.
He wanted to kiss her forever, just relish this moment when it was only them, and he didn’t have any responsibilities toward anyone. When they were simply Jane and Thomas. Not a desperate fortune hunter and a curious young lady.
Her fingers were back in his hair, pulling on the strands, and it was as though she was touching him all the way down to his soul, making him want to writhe in torment as she continued her gentle torture.
His hand had begun a slow ascent upward without his realizing it, from her waist to her rib cage to just beside her breast. And then she shifted slightly, moving his fingers closer to her breast, and then she moved again, making what she wanted perfectly clear without having to say a word.
He spread his fingers out over the soft warmth of her and squeezed lightly as she uttered a soft moan deep in her throat. A noise that definitely went straight to his cock, making him picture what else he could do to elicit those intoxicating sounds.
She was actively engaged in the kissing now, her tongue clashing with his as they sucked and licked one another.
Dear God, this was only a kiss. He’d had plenty of kisses before, he wasn’t a scandalous rake for nothing, but he had never experienced a kiss so profoundly sensual, so exciting, before.
Only a kiss. Everything contained in a kiss, every fiber of his being focused on this moment, this interlude of delicious pleasure, just them in the dark together, exploring one another.
Her hand had found its way to his waist, and was holding him still, as if restraining him. As though preventing him from leaving.
He didn’t want to leave.
He was fully erect now, his cock nearly painful as it throbbed in response to her kisses.
He wished he could take her hand and put it on himself, show her what she had done to him, beg her to touch him, to grip his aching shaft in her hand, tease him with those fingernails up and down until he pleaded for mercy. Which he would not actually want.
No mercy. He wanted her complete and unrelenting, that eager desire to learn coupled with the knowledge that she could reduce him to rubble with just a few strokes of her hand.
Just as his mind was racing with what he could do and how he could accomplish it, the carriage slowed, indicating they had arrived at their destination.
They broke apart, both gasping, their eyes meeting in the dark, his palm still stretched over her breast.
His mouth curled into a smile as he removed his hand, his skin instantly missing the feel of her.
She smiled in response as she slid her fingers out of his hair and away from his waist. She twisted away from him, picking up her discarded gloves and making short work of putting them back on.
He did the same as the carriage door swung open, and he stepped out of the carriage, drawing the tails of his jacket over his erection as he descended.
Thankfully, it was too dark for anyone to see anything.
He held his hand out to her, and she took it, her hold tightening as she stepped down.
They stood in front of where he’d instructed the carriage to take them, a nondescript building just at the edge of where respectable London began to bleed into disreputable London.
He pressed a coin into the coachman’s hand, then gestured to the front door, which opened as they watched, warm golden light spilling out onto the steps of the building as two people exited.
Both were finely dressed, both were stumbling slightly, both were laughing joyously as they clutched at one another to find their balance.
She glanced at him, a satisfied expression on her face. “My first evil den!” she exclaimed. “What is this place?”
He took her arm and navigated her around the inebriated couple, walking up the steps to the entrance.
“Good evening, sir,” the doorman said. “Mr. Sharpe, is it not?”
“It is,” Thomas confirmed.
“Excellent. I will ask Mr. Archer to escort you to your table.” The doorman gestured to someone inside, and then Mr. Archer appeared, a dapper Black man wearing an excellently tailored suit with a handkerchief in a bright blue color tucked in his pocket, his cravat made of matching fabric.
“What is this place?” she repeated, sounding even more enthusiastic now.
Her exuberance was contagious. He hadn’t felt this excited about going anywhere since he’d first come to London on the heiress hunt.
And here he was, two years later, still hunting.
The thought made him deflate.
“What is it?” she asked in a very different tone of voice. As though she had sensed his mood, and was worried about him. He would have to keep that in mind—that she seemed able to intuit his mood. He was accustomed to being able to hide whatever he was thinking and feeling. But with her it was as though he was stripped bare.
Unfortunately for him and his base desires, he was not stripped bare. And worse was that she wasn’t either.
Though thank God they weren’t. He’d have buried himself inside her soft warmth long before now.
He needed to think about something else. Anything else.
He focused on Mr. Archer, the owner of the hall, who was moving through the tables, leading them to one close enough to the dance floor to make their way there easily, but not so close to the musicians that they couldn’t speak.
Thomas helped her into her chair, then sat down beside her, both of them gazing out into the crowd. There were several couples dancing, and it was clear that none of the people belonged to their world. Like going to Miss Ivy’s, that fact made Thomas feel more relaxed, since he wouldn’t have to perform for anyone. On the contrary, people would be performing for him. And her.
“This is a dance hall?” she asked, raising her voice to be heard over the music.
He shrugged. “Sometimes. It’s owned by the gentleman who saw us to our table. At other times it—well, you will see when it happens.”
Her eyes widened, and her expression got even more excited, if such a thing were possible.
“Oh, I cannot wait!” she said, turning her head to drink in the view. The music was boisterous and rowdy, as was the dancing—the dancers’ faces were flushed, and skirts were whirling, revealing glimpses of stockinged ankles and calves.
“We should dance,” she declared as she rose from her seat. She held her hand out to him, and he took it, rising slowly out of his chair.
“Are you certain?” he asked. “Because Mr. Archer’s dance floor is not like the ones you are accustomed to.”
“That is why I wish to even more,” she replied in an impatient tone. “Come on,” she added, leading him to the edge of the dance floor.
“I don’t know this dance,” he objected, but she just shook her head and turned so she was in his arms.
“Where is your spirit of adventure?” she asked in a challenging tone of voice. That same tone that dared him to make her fall in love with him.
She looked over his shoulder at the dancers. “This doesn’t look so difficult, I’m certain we can figure it out.”
He drew her closer so their faces were mere inches apart. “Much better,” he murmured, then swept her out into the crowd.